


The Dragon's Lair

by wargoddess



Series: Dragon Age: ABO [2]
Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: A/B/O, Alternate Universe, Anal Play, BDSM, Closeted Character, Consent Play, Dragons, Existential Angst, M/M, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Mild Blood, No knotting thank god there has to be a limit, Not at all a metaphor for women as objectified by the patriarchy nope not a bit, Oral Sex, PWP, Size Kink, Unnecessary worldbuilding, Were-Creatures, does it count as size kink if they're just proportional, maybe I'm overthinking this
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-29
Updated: 2017-11-02
Packaged: 2019-01-26 04:49:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,598
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12549284
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wargoddess/pseuds/wargoddess
Summary: As a closeted omega, Dorian just wants the freedom to live his life without being changed to suit others' tastes.  The Iron Bull knows a thing or two about this.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Hawke, Wolf](https://archiveofourown.org/works/10310885) by [wargoddess](https://archiveofourown.org/users/wargoddess/pseuds/wargoddess). 



> Porn. Nothin' but porn -- except with a shit-ton of talking and worldbuilding and other stuff, because clearly I cannot Porn right. Set in the same 'verse and technically a sequel to "Hawke, Wolf," but really, this is just an excuse for me to vent stress by attempting more A/B/O porn in this weird-ass alternate DA-verse. Reminder that I do not really Get a/b/o! Also, not sure how well this stands on its own if you haven't read "Hawke, Wolf" first.

     Everything is fine until the Dragon shows up.

     Well. Not _fine_. Things are the way they've always been: Dorian must hide what he is. In Tevinter this was a simpler thing, because the Witches who make up the altus and laetan classes are incapable of telling an omega from any other person, at least not on sight. They would know if they got a good taste of his magic -- omega magic is powerful, but an altogether different thing from mastery of the elements or necromancy -- but fortunately Dorian's flash and bluster has masked this. All they really care about is that he isn't magicless, anyway. Only Dorian's father knows that Dorian is put together wrong, and only Dorian's father has tried to do anything about it... but that, of course, is why Dorian is here in the benighted south, helping the Inquisitor restore the world to its miserable old self. Better the apocalypse than blood magic.

     But that was Tevinter, and here in the south hiding what he is is an altogether more fraught thing, because there are bloody Wolves everywhere, aggressive and completely out of control. Here Dorian must rely on an amulet that his father had enchanted for him in better days, which replaces his natural scent with something bland and inoffensively human. Even then, he has to be careful, because the alphas here are constantly a-prowl for omegas, and relentless in the pursuit once they find one. Dorian has sat in the tavern listening while Carver Hawke, the warrior omega beholden to Commander Cullen, laughingly describes how Cullen brought an entire wolfpack into the sewers of Kirkwall to track him down. Hawke is happy with Cullen, _likes_ that he has lost his humanity, and so to him the whole affair is amusing. But Dorian has heard other tales of southern alphas, with less pleasant endings. He knows to be wary.

     Especially of this "Iron Bull," when he appears. That the man is an alpha among his kind is as obvious as his massive rack of horns. He treats all the other Inquisition members with a cheerful equality that's not at all typical of alphakind, but his joviality fools no one. They've all seen how the Bull loves battle, and how red his single eye is sometimes. Dragons can bear phenomenal amounts of animus easily -- they are the most resilient of the Beasts -- but even for that kind Bull radiates bloodlust, in and out of battle. He rarely takes his Dragon shape, but he hardly needs to; he's a monster even without it. Indeed, the Bull tells the Inquisitor almost immediately that he is an alpha, and a Ben Hassrath who is loyal to the High Dragons of Qunandar, probably because they would have figured it out anyway, eventually. The Bull is not the sort of man who bothers to hide his true nature.

     Dorian has heard the awful stories about Dragon alphas: omega harems, alphas devouring omegas amid dark rituals, more. He's seen captured Dragon omegas on the slave auction blocks in Tevinter: silent, damaged creatures, wrapped in chains and masks and sometimes with their lips sewn shut. It's hard to sell Dragon omegas, the slavers have told Dorian, because the poor things tend to kill themselves first chance. Dorian cannot imagine anything more horrific than being captured by a Dragon.

     So he's careful, oh so careful, around Bull. He can't avoid the man since they have to work together, but he makes sure to have his amulet recharged by one of the dwarves in Skyhold, and he takes care never to be alone with the Bull, just in case. And it's fine. After a while it becomes clear that the Bull can't tell what he is. So Dorian relaxes. A little.

     There's only one real problem: he's got no one to mount him.

     This seems like a minor problem at first. He's always cultivated human lovers, and back in Tevinter those were enough. In Skyhold, though, they all seem inadequate for some reason. It isn't technique; men are men, and the ones Dorian tends to attract are generally capable in bed. It isn't high-level Circle magic, for the Maker's sake. The problem is _Dorian_ , though, he realizes after sending another lover home and acknowledging his own frustration. The humans scratch the itch -- but the itch is maddening, and grows more so with each passing day. Suddenly the men's scents are wrong, their passion unsatisfying. He craves something more.

     He doesn't know what, but he needs a solution, or he'll never sleep again. But there are stories and rumors to that effect, too, so on one trip to Val Royeaux he peels off from the group and slinks into a little shop he's heard of, where the proprietor takes one look at him -- she's a bonded alpha herself, and somehow despite his amulet she just _knows_ \-- and sells him an "omega kit." When Dorian gets it home and opens it in the privacy of his quarters, he finds a lovely lacquered bulb-style dildo, a specially-formulated lubricant, and a small bottle of cologne that somehow emulates an alpha's musky scent. Dorian follows instructions and sprays a kerchief with this. Then he wraps it around his mouth and nose, plugs himself up, and shudders through the best orgasm he's had in months. It's perfect. He's going to beggar himself buying more of the cologne every few months, but with the kit, he can endure.

     So he tells himself.

     But it all goes wrong when they fight the damned Gryphons.

     Dorian's heard the rumors, of course, but it's worse than that. Not because the Gryphons have clearly lost their bloody minds -- or had them stolen away by Venatori agents -- but because the Gryphons are a dying race among Beast-kind. There are only ever a few hundred of them at a time, and for some reason they aren't good breeders. Rumor has it that the problem is something they've done to themselves to fight darkspawn; they're immune to the taint, but immunity has a price. But what Dorian hasn't figured on is that their ranks are _full_ of alphas -- more than a dozen in Adamant alone, and Stroud says there are that many and more at Weisshaupt. It is a biological thing, probably; some kind of reaction to looming extinction. Without children, the only way that Beasts can perpetuate themselves is to bond and convert omegas. Fascinating, really, and if Dorian were back home in Tevinter, he would study the phenomenon.

     Instead he has to _fight_ all these alphas, and it's terrible. They can't smell him through the amulet's concealment, but some instinct makes them flinch when Dorian comes at them, and more than once Dorian scores because they're confused by their own reaction to him. That's like cheating -- though he strikes anyway. It's war. But it feels wrong, or more wrong than usual, to kill these men and women. The amulet doesn't do anything to help _him_ , and every instinct that Dorian possesses tells him that he should be mating with them, not murdering them.

     By the time the battle ends, he is sick with it, hurt in mind and body, desperate to do nothing more than crawl into a bottle, or his bed. When they get back to Skyhold he does both -- first sleeping for a whole day, then dragging himself out for food and a bath before heading to the tavern. At the tavern he slumps at the bar with a bottle of something foul, but strong enough to blot out the memory of eyes staring into his and then widening as they realize what he is... and then dying.

     One bottle isn't enough. The surly dwarf bartender has gone off somewhere; Dorian doesn't know or care where. He puts a coin on the counter and then drags himself up, heading for the storeroom to serve himself. It's hard to find the decent wine; he has to delve further into the room than he would like, looking for it. And when he hears a soft grunt and a shuffle from behind some of the ale barrels, he thinks it's the bartender. "Sorry," he says, stepping around the barrel and holding up the flask he's just found. "Couldn't wait; you underst -- "

     It's not the bartender. It's the Bull and one of the tavern women, on a pallet of furs that's obviously where the woman sleeps between shifts. She's not sleeping now. She's on her hands and knees, gasping, skirts thrown up, breasts hanging loose from her bodice, expression transported. Dorian thinks she hasn't even noticed him. That's because the Bull, kneeling behind her, is busy fucking her senseless.

     Dorian stops in shock, his mouth falling open -- but that's a mistake. That gives him a good solid headful of the little space's heavy sex-scent: delicate human desire and thicker, hot-musk alpha lust. It freezes him where he stands, sending a ring of sudden raw _need_ through him, even though he's never had any real interest in women. Not even alpha women. Ah, but it isn't the woman whom he wants, is it? Not the woman at all.

     Because the Bull is glorious there on his knees, gray skin glistening with sweat, hips moving steadily, hands tight on the woman's hips. He's growling softly, lips parted to reveal sharper-than-human fangs, his vermillion eye half-lidded and slit-pupilled with pleasure. It sharpens, though, when he sees Dorian.

     And the Bull _grins_ at the sight of him. He does not stop fucking the woman. Quite the opposite; when he sees that Dorian is just standing there watching, he pushes her down a little and raises her hips more. She cries out in delight, but with the clarity of instinct Dorian knows that's not why the Bull has done this. It's a message, without words, aimed at him. _Like what you see?_ the Bull is saying, with that ferocious little grin on his big face. _You want some, too?_

     And -- And -- oh, Maker. Dorian thinks, suddenly, desperately --

     _oh please yes_

     -- before he turns and flees, as fast as he can without running.

     No one notices, though that's partly because Dorian takes care to avoid anyone who _would_ notice, or give a damn, like Cassandra (who regards him with perpetual suspicion) or Leliana (who regards everyone with perpetual suspicion) or Vivienne (who regards him as a rival) or Solas (who simply unnerves him). Back at his room, he tries to wrench the door open and curses when his fingers can't seem to manage the latch. He's at the case under his bed before the door can even close behind him, hands shaking as he fumbles the dildo out of its silk bag. Never before has the complexity of Tevinter clothing infuriated him so much. But at last he is naked and the dildo is lubed and one of the cologne-drenched cloths is over his face. He pushes the dildo into himself and he isn't at all ready, but his body opens up so quickly that it doesn't matter. Then he is panting and sobbing as he tries desperately to fuck himself but _it isn't enough,_ it's driving him mad, usually he needs only the cloth and a few seconds but nothing's happening and he's going to die if he can't come right bloody now --

     "Hey," says the Iron Bull, and Dorian freezes.

     The Bull's standing there, dressed and freshly-washed to judge by smell of soap, a smile on his face as he pulls Dorian's door shut. Belatedly Dorian remembers that he didn't latch it. His amulet is across the room. The whole place must reek of unattached, needful omega. Even if it doesn't, Dorian is on his knees, naked as the new day, free hand frozen in the act of cramming a piece of lacquered wood up his own arse. Even a human might take advantage in such a circumstance. The Bull --

     _oh please yes!_

     No. _No_. No. Chains and sewn lips. Venhedis, no.

     But he needs so. It actually hurts, he needs so much. Is that how Dragons win their omegas -- this awful desperation? Must be.

     The Bull lifts an eyebrow, reading Dorian like a book. Bloody Ben-Hassrath. "Yyyyeah, I wondered if that business back in the tavern might set you off. Look, you're not really in any condition for a talk right now, so... what do you say I just top you off, hmm? Just enough to set you straight."

     The words barely make sense. Is Dorian an oil lamp? He shudders, inadvertently clenching 'round the dildo and feeling a wave of revulsion for it. An alpha is in the room and he doesn't want a bloody _dildo_. What will the Bull feel like inside him, instead...?

     Like sewn-up lips. Dorian groans, yanking out the dildo and throwing it across the room before flopping onto his side amid the sweat-damp bedsheets. It's over. He can't take it anymore. He curls up to wait for the Bull to claim him, hating himself and his own helplessness. All he can do is hope that his father does not somehow hear that the Dragons have taken Dorian, because that will convince Halward that he was right to do what he did. That will be just the worst.

     But the Bull does not come to the bed. "Come on, Dorian, I need you to make a decision," he says. It is nonsensical. "My scent's probably been working on you for weeks, and it's only going to get worse now that we're in the same room -- but for right now, you can function. Right? You understand what we're talking about. Don't you?"

     Does he? Dorian clutches at the sheets as another wave of aching, awful need ripples along his nerves. They're talking about Bull fucking him before he loses his bloody mind; that much he gets. "Y-yes," he manages.

     "Okay." The Bull shifts a little -- uncomfortably, Dorian thinks. But then, an unbonded alpha in the same room as an unbonded omega reeking of sex has to be struggling. Dorian has never heard of alphas _resisting_ the urge, in a situation like this. If anyone could, though, that would be the Bull. "So. I need you to say, clearly, 'I want you to help me.' And I will. No strings attached; isn't that what they say down here? But you gotta _ask_."

     Dorian turns his face away. This is the only salve to pride that he can manage. "I... I don't... want to be a Dragon." He knows it's pointless to say this. If the Bull wants to turn him, there's not a bloody thing Dorian can do. But he tries, anyway, begging because that's all he's got. "Please. Please don't."

     There is a momentary, startled pause. And then suddenly Bull's voice reverberates with anger. "Shit. Is that why -- " He cuts himself off. "Okay. No turning. Promise."

     It's a lie. Omegas can run from alphas, can use omega magic to lock them in human flesh and fight them as equals, can leave them floundering in animus until they go mad, but once an omega submits, they have no say in what that alpha does to them. Still... Maker, he hurts. His blood races. He can't seem to catch his breath. Bull can make all of this stop. Dorian can't find it in himself to care anymore what happens after that.

     "Want." His throat hurts. He hopes the Bull doesn't take his mouth. Or maybe... Dorian's good with his mouth. Maybe if Bull likes that, he won't sew Dorian up? Doesn't matter. "Want... help. Please."

     The Bull lets out a long, slow breath. "Okay." Then, at last, he comes to the bed.

     There's a murmured command, something about positioning, but Dorian can't move anymore. He feels himself shifted instead, drawn up onto his knees, and a gentle, enormous hand presses against the small of his back. The touch makes Dorian shudder and present himself for mounting, even though he hates doing this. It feels good to have a man in him at this angle, granted, but there's something entirely too animalistic about the business for his tastes. He can't help it, though. And as if to compound his self-loathing, for an instant he also cannot help clawing at the sheets with his blunt nails -- but of course, he's heard that omegas start taking on the traits of their alphas when they are mounted. The change doesn't happen in earnest until the bite, but --

     As much as he expects it, he's still shocked when the Bull just shoves right into him. Human lovers are more considerate -- ohhhh, but it doesn't matter, does it? It's what Dorian needs. The Bull exhales and holds Dorian still when he twitches reflexively. Venhedis, he's _huge_. Of course he is, Dorian's speculated before, but the proof...

     "Relax," the Bull commands, and Dorian can't do anything else. One of his massive hands folds around Dorian's shoulder; he pulls back and thrusts in again, working his hips in a little circle this time as if to open up Dorian even more. Dorian groans helplessly, loving every inch. "Yeah. You can take it. Look how ready you are for me. They pretend people don't have roles down here, but it's a lie." His breath cascades down Dorian's spine. "You're made for this."

     Then the Bull takes careful hold of Dorian's hips. His claws have grown sharper, of course they have, just like his teeth have probably grown longer for the bite, and Dorian prays the man's cock doesn't get any bigger because omega or not there are _limits_ , for the Maker's sake --

     But the Bull starts fucking him in earnest. It's hard and fast and exactly what Dorian needs. He groans bonelessly into the sheets, shutting his eyes and letting himself be taken, trying to at least enjoy his last moments of freedom. But it doesn't feel good, he is surprised to realize. It's too hard, almost perfunctory, no foreplay or fingerplay or reacharound. He _needs_ it, though, good or not, and as the Bull all-too-quickly lifts him higher and starts really pounding it home, Dorian sobs out, "Please -- Please, bloody Void, _please_ \-- "

     The Bull utters as soft, pent groan. "Yeah. Hn, fuck, hang on."

     -- and Dorian is shoved forward and pinned down by a hand on his back again, held still for Bull's pleasure. He gasps for air around a knot of sheet, wonders if he is to die split on a Dragon's cock, wonders if this will be his future forever --

     -- but then the Bull gone from him. What? Dorian finds himself still all of a sudden, collapsed in a sprawl amid cooling damp sheets. _What?_ It's over. It's over, and he's alone.

     Confused, he pushes himself up. His whole body rings like a struck bell as he does this; it isn't pain, quite, or repletion, quite. He frowns to himself, trying to assess and failing. The awful need is gone, but beyond that he feels... He doesn't know how he feels. Did he even come? He doesn't think so.

     And -- Frightened, Dorian fumbles for his shoulder. But the skin there is unbroken, unbloodied. He has not been bitten.

     He looks up at Bull, who is buckling closed the massive belt that holds up his pants. The Bull sees him and winks, grinning. "All better? You gotta be more careful, though, seriously. I mean, I get it if I'm not your type, but I don't mind helping you out if you're going through a dry spell. What kind of monster would I be if I just let you suffer like that? So next time, ask before it gets to that point."

     So that's what _top-off_ means in Bull's strange barbarian lingo. But why is Dorian still so unsatisfied? It's supposed to be better with an alpha. "I... Venhedis."

     "Quit talking and sleep it off. Poor thing, you gotta be exhausted." The Bull shrugs his massive shoulders and stretches. "Come find me when you're ready to have that talk, though, if you still want to."

     Dorian _is_ exhausted, though he doesn't understand why. He's had more energetic sex sessions. This was so quick. Was that really all?

     Fasta vass. Is Dorian... disappointed? Maker, he _is_.

     But the Bull has kept his word, which in itself has stunned Dorian. He hasn't been bitten -- or clawed, or hurt inside, or left with broken bones, or any of the terrible things that he's heard can happen to omegas when they are taken by an alpha -- especially a Dragon alpha. He isn't even particularly sore, though the Bull was bloody enormous.

     So when the Bull winks and leaves -- just _leaves_ , the way a casual human lover would, instead of coming back to the bed and throwing Dorian onto his face and having him again like the ravenous alphas in all the stories -- Dorian flops into the damp sheets, his mind reeling. Somewhere amid the reel, however, his thoughts slow, and he realizes that this is the first time he's felt _at peace_ in weeks. No hovering frustration. No restlessness. So he sleeps, and it is dreamless and deep and good.

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just a lot of talking, because apparently I can't write a goddamn quick PWP like a normal person.

     Dorian's afraid, of course. But he needs to know if all of it was a dream, so after a generous lie-in the next morning he gets up, takes his sheets to the laundry to exchange for fresh ones, and then heads to the communal bath. He checks himself carefully in the glass, but there are no bruises. Bull's claws haven't even pricked his skin. He's fine.

     What to think of this? Perhaps nothing at all. Or perhaps he should take up the Iron Bull's invitation to finally talk.

     The Bull is in his usual spot, holding court over the tavern's back room, with Krem posted inconspicuously nearby as his bodyguard. For the first time it occurs to Dorian to wonder why a Dragon needs a bodyguard at all. He ponders it as he passes Krem, and the man's eyes rake over him as if Dorian is actually a threat. But the Bull lights up when he sees Dorian, so Krem relaxes. What's that about?

     "Omegas down here get the wrong idea," the Bull says as Dorian stops in front of him. That damnable Ben-Hassrath training again. "Me and the Chargers roll into a village or manor and they always come sniffing around, hoping I'll bind them and whisk them away to a life of adventure and good sex forever." He rolls his eyes. "Krem runs those off for me. The ones who want something different, though... them I want to talk to." He grins at Dorian, pointedly.

     "Ah; I suppose I should feel honored," Dorian says, with more lightness than he feels. He perches awkwardly on a barrel across from the Bull, uneasy for reasons that he cannot articulate. It isn't fear, quite. If the Bull had wanted to bind Dorian or turn him into a Dragon, he could have done so at any point the night before. It's obvious now that Dorian has none of the usual things to fear from him. Perhaps that's it, then? In the Bull, Dorian must fear the unknown.

     "Feeling better?" Bull asks. Shockingly, he asks this quietly. The rumble of his voice might carry, but amid the chattering people and off-key music and clinking glasses of the tavern, Dorian thinks he's the only one who can actually make out words. Maybe that's why the Bull spends so much time here.

     "Yes, thank you," Dorian says politely -- and all of a sudden, the whole conversation seems entirely absurd. He grimaces. Is he an altus or not? Does he not walk at the left hand of the Inquisitor herself? He can't abide all this verbal tiptoeing. "And why is that, might I ask?"

     "What?" Bull yawns. "Why are you feeling better? Because I fucked you back to good health, remember?"

     Dorian has always prided himself on making other people blush; he hates being on the receiving end of that. Setting his jaw, he crosses his legs primly. "Well, it's certainly not as if that was my first mounting," he snaps. "I've been with dozens of men; you're just the first alpha. And there seemed to be nothing altogether special about what we did."

     The Bull has lifted a gigantic mug of ale, but now he eyes Dorian over the rim, looking amused. "No shitting, I was your first? Well, if you've never had an alpha before me, then you haven't been _mounted_. Just fucked, like what we did last night. Not the same thing at all." He sobers. "Huh. Guess that explains how you ended up in heat, though."

     In _what_? Dorian tries not to frown, but he suspects he's doing it anyway. He shrugs, trying to pretend nonchalance. "I suppose."

     But now the Bull is frowning himself. He sets the mug down. "And you have no actual idea what I'm talking about."

     Dorian sets his jaw in irritation. "I imagine we don't use the same terminology for things in Tevinter."

     "Definitely not, if you think fucking a human and being mounted by an alpha are the same thing." Bull regards him for a long moment, then purses his lips. "You know, I've heard things. Stories."

     It's too much an echo of Dorian's own sketchy, story-informed knowledge; he twitches a little. "Such as?"

     "Such as, down here alphas don't _ask_ omegas before they claim them. They just do it, whether the omega wants it or not. Like you were afraid I'd do you, last night."

     _Alphas, **ask**?_ Dorian clears his expression quickly, but it's too late; the Bull has seen his confusion. He sighs, scowling in earnest now.

     "Right, so I guess that one's true. I mean, I ran it past Cullen already. He talked a lot of shit about how 'proper' alphas ask, but that just means there's a lot of shit alphas who don't. Like those Gryphons. You know, Stroud told me bunch of them are omegas who've been turned? Not quite against their will, but over a barrel -- facing death sentences, scared they were going to be sold to some awful alpha by their families, and so on. Fucking _coercion_." The Bull shakes his head, massive horns swinging as he radiates disgust. "Okay, and here's another thing I've heard: that nobody _helps_ omegas, here. Omegas either get caught and bound by an alpha, or they're like you -- running around with humans or betas, sniffing alpha cologne to stay sane, constantly on the brink of going into heat. Is that just a thing omegas in general do here, or just you?"

     That word again. Dorian can't help it. "What is heat?"

     For an instant, the look on the Bull's face is murderous. Only the fact that it's not directed at Dorian keeps him from fleeing. "So they don't even _tell_ you anything. Fuck. That's _barbaric_."

     It is not a word Dorian ever expected to hear from a Dragon, let alone the Bull, who is the epitome of barbarism. Irked into honesty, he snaps, "No, no one tells me a bloody thing, they just drop cryptic hints about what I don't know, thank you very much. Tell me what?"

     "Among other things, how to take care of yourself, safely. Like you _haven't_ been doing."

     Dorian draws himself up. "I'm doing well enough. I have a life, beyond being some alpha's slave!"

     "Omegas _need_ alphas, Dorian, same way alphas need omegas. You guys keep us from turning into the monsters we are, right? But it goes both ways. You're powerful, but that power turns on you if it isn't used. Eats you alive. You _have_ to serve your nature. Know your role."

     "Vishante kaffas -- How dare you!" It's irrational, his sudden fury, but he can't help it. All of a sudden Dorian's father's voice echoes in his mind. _You're an altus, Dorian. There are emperors in our lineage! It's your role to help rule Tevinter, not to whore yourself out to half-animal monsters. I only want to make you better_...

     He gets up and starts pacing a short circuit in front of the Bull, his arms tight across his chest. "I left Tevinter because I won't be _changed_. Yes, I hide my scent, because most of the 'shit alphas' in Thedas _would_ take me if they could, steal away my freedom and humanity, and I won't have it. No one has the right to tell me my 'role' in life -- not them and not you!"

     The Bull groans and puts his head in his hands. "Sometimes I understand why the High Dragons want to just conquer this whole continent and civilize the lot of you at once." Still shaking his head -- a dangerous prospect for anyone in range of his horns -- the Bull looks up at him. _Pityingly._ "Not your fault, I guess. Wild Witches running the show in Tevinter; how would they know how to help the rare omegas born into their ranks? And nothing but spayed Wolves for Beast-kind there. But it's here, too, not just Tevinter. Everywhere but in our lands, omegas have to _hide_. That's the worst thing I've ever heard."

Dorian blinks, stunned out of his own anger by the Bull's outrage. An alpha, angered by the plight of omegas in Thedas? But Thedas is exactly how the alphas want it, Dorian figures -- their own private hunting ground, where they may hunt down omegas and force them into submission with impunity. Why would another alpha be troubled by a world built to gratify their worst impulses? A world where of course omegas must hide, because they cannot trust alphas to act civilized?

     _Because he does not come from such a world_ , Dorian realizes then, in sudden wonder. _Because among Dragons, alphas are expected to control themselves. Among Dragons, omegas are **people** , not prizes to be fought over or taken._

     And then it hits Dorian. This. Bull's outrage. _Is what Dorian has always felt_ , in his heart of hearts. It's wrong that omegas must hide, whether within the protective bosom of their families or with Witch tricks. It's _wrong_ that Dorian cannot simply be what he is. He stares at the Bull, floored to find himself in such powerful agreement. He sits down on the barrel again, inadvertently hard.

     The Bull's anger finally fades before Dorian's existential epiphany. He says, in an oddly gentle voice, "If you'd been born in Seheron, when you came of age, somebody would've assigned you to an alpha. His or her job would've been to help you find a cause to serve, because that's what omegas need most. Probably why you came to join the Inquisition, hmm? Not many causes to serve in Tevinter."

     None at all. Dorian nods slowly.

     "And anytime you asked -- or didn't ask, because it's an alpha's job to know what you need _before_ you ask -- that alpha would've mounted you. Dragon omegas don't go into heat, if you're wondering. I mean, it can happen, but it hasn't, for years. Heat is kind of a... starvation reflex. A way for your omega self to get what it needs when it's gone hungry for so long that you're losing yourself. In Dragon lands, no one goes hungry."

     Dorian frowns, trying to parse all of it. The Bull certainly asked last night, even when Dorian could barely speak in response. But they don't always ask?

     With those uncanny Ben-hassrath observational skills of his, the Bull shakes his head at once. "It's not like whatever you're thinking," he tells Dorian. "Last night, you saw how it usually goes. Wait, no -- usually, we have that talk long before it gets to the point of the omega going into heat. Not fair to ask when you're losing your mind and begging to be fucked. So I asked then, but that's why I kept things simple. Just enough to break your heat, see? Anything else, we talk first." As Dorian inhales in understanding, the Bull nods. "And _you_ might always need to be asked, because you've got a lot of weird ideas in your head about what alphas are like, and no reason to trust any of us." His expression hardens, and he looks away, as if the can see alphas misbehaving across southern Thedas. "Back home, we catch any alphas doing the kind of shit they get away with here? They spend some quality time with the reeducators."

     It makes no sense. "But I've seen Dragon omegas. The, the chains. The masks. The _sewn lips_." He shudders in horror. "Don't pretend they wanted that!"

     The Bull sighs. "You've never even had a real mounting, Dorian. Don't insult what you can't possibly understand."

     He's said this in the same gentle tone he's been using all along. It's not a reprimand, but it stings nevertheless. Maybe it irritates Dorian more _because_ it's so gently said -- as if Dorian is a virgin or a child, who needs to learn more of the world before he can be granted access to the mysteries of adult life. So he blurts, "What is there to understand? You said omegas are _assigned_ to an alpha. They've no choice, then!"

     "I said they're assigned _at first_. Once the omegas know what they're doing, they find an alpha they like and pick that one for regular mountings. In the meantime, the omega's covered. No need for toys like that little thing of yours. Unless they want one too, that is."

     Dorian grimaces at Bull's casual _little thing_ dismissal. His dildo is generously sized, after all. But this prompts a memory of how it felt to stretch around Bull's rather substantial girth; he suppresses a shiver. To cover this, he says, "Don't tell me you've never used 'toys' of your own."

     The Bull's grin is wide and sharp-toothed in a way that makes Dorian feel two kinds of uncomfortable. "Ohhhh, yeah, I like toys. Lots."

     All at once, Dorian wants to ask, _What sorts of toys?_ He doesn't, but the Bull is the Bull; he probably guesses the unspoken question anyway.

     Rather desperately, Dorian attempts to steer the conversation into safer territory. "This heat business, then; will it happen again?"

     "Well, I don't know. Are you going to keep living in close proximity to an alpha without letting him mount you now and again?"

     Dorian sets his jaw. "I suppose that means you're offering."

     "I told you that last night." Then the Bull sighs and leans forward, serious again, to prop his elbows on his knees. "Since they don't tell you shit here, I'm guessing you don't know you can die from going into heat?"

     "I -- _what_?"

     "It's rare, but it happens." The Bull shrugs. "If it goes on long enough, I mean, with no alpha to break it. Heart attack from the stress. Aneurysm, whatever. And that's if you don't just snap and go mad. Both ways, remember; no different from what happens to alphas if they build up too much animus and have no omega to take it from them. Everyone breaks if torture goes on long enough."

     Dorian sits there, shaken. "I didn't know. No one _says_ that."

     "Yeah, well. Glad I told you." The Bull looks grim now. "I figure they keep omegas scared and ignorant here to keep them in line. If they're in heat, they're probably that much easier to catch." He makes a contemptuous gesture. "Like some kind of exotic _pet_."

     It's in line with Dorian's own thoughts, but he feels oddly compelled to defend his species. "Most alphas here take care of their omegas, though, once the, er, preliminaries are dealt with. The bond can be a beautiful thing." He is thinking of Wolf Commander Cullen and his omega, young Hawke. They fight as a pair in battle -- Cullen palpably dislikes it, but he cannot _stop_ Hawke, and Maker knows they are magnificently deadly together. That partnership isn't the sort of thing Dorian has ever wanted for himself, but it clearly isn't terrible, either.

     "Yyyyeah, we mostly don't do bonding." The Bull shrugs as Dorian's mouth falls open. "The High Dragon alphas match us up for breeding whenever they need to. Sometimes they'll bond a male omega for that purpose, if he's got an especially desirable set of traits to pass on to the next generation of dragonlings, but mostly no. Mounting's not really about breeding. And that's what us drake alphas are for; basically, we're there to pop your cork whenever you need it. For omegas it's like, oh, going to see a healer. Sometimes it's this long drawn-out thing, takes all day, leaves you walking funny. But sometimes it's just -- " He clicks his tongue. "In, out, see you next week. Like what we did last night."

     The freedom of it sounds wonderful. Except it cannot be free, not for everyone; the _chains_ , damn it. And... Dorian shifts uncomfortably, fidgeting. He doesn't want to say it anymore. The Bull has been kind, he understands now; it's wrong to repay kindness with insults. But...

     "Something wrong?"

     Dorian glares at him. "It's _rude_ , you know, the way you always seem to read my mind."

     "Would you rather I not tell you and do it anyway?" The Bull shrugs. "Can't help it, sorry. So, there's something bothering you."

     There are lots of things bothering Dorian. He sighs and finally tries to at least be tactful. "Last night was... Thank you, I mean, for er, breaking the heat. But..."

     "Didn't exactly polish your enchanted staff?" Grinning, the Bull makes an obscene gesture with his fist. "Still need your Deep Roads fully mapped out?"

     "Vishante kaffas! _Must_ you be so vulgar?" Dorian glares, embarrassed, but the Bull only chuckles. Dorian shifts again, but the thought is there now -- probably because the Bull has planted it there; when he's not being scrupulously honest, the man is disturbingly manipulative. _He'd get along beautifully in Tevinter, if he didn't just shift and start setting fire to the whole bloody country._ Which is a thought tinged with more admiration than Dorian expected to feel. Is it just curiosity, then, that makes Dorian consider this? Or... He doesn't know.

     But he says, "You did say mounting is not the same as, um, a 'top-off.'"

     "Oh, yeah. Last night was just business, if you want to break it down that way. Mounting is pleasure." The Bull raises his eyebrows, still grinning. "You gonna ask, finally?"

     "Wh- " Shit. Because apparently Dragons _like_ to be asked. "I'm sure I don't know what you mean."

     "Come on, don't give me that shit." The Bull spreads his arms, showing off his impressive physique, and Dorian _does_ look because... Maker's Breath. There's a lot of man there. "Here I am, healthy drake in my prime. You already know I'm safe. And your head's perfectly clear now. Didn't like the five-minute economy fuck? Come get the premium package!"

     "I have no idea if you're _safe_ ," Dorian snaps. His face is hot, though, and he wants... damn it! It is _foolish_ to want more from this man, it is mad, and surely this is the proof he has lost his mind. "Since you won't explain the bloody chains."

     The Bull sits back, steepling his fingers and looking entirely too smug. "Well, now, everything's negotiable. You sure you don't want to try the chains, though? You might like them." Dorian stiffens, and the Bull relents. "Fine, fine, no chains. Got any other big nos?"

     Are they _talking_ about this? Are they really? Apparently they are. Dorian blurts, "No teeth." Bull's are entirely too sharp.

     "I never do that anyway with omegas who aren't fixed into a Beast form yet. Too risky. What about my claws, though? Or yours, if we get into it enough. I love a little claw-work, personally."

     And Dorian remembers looking in the mirror in the bathhouse and wanting... something _there_ , on his skin. Bruises, scratches. Evidence of the Bull's attentions. It's wrong, this whole conversation is _so_ wrong, but he finds himself saying, "Perhaps a little."

     "Welts only, or can I draw blood?" The Bull's eye glimmers red for just an instant before settling back into its usual gray.

     _Blood_ , Dorian thinks hungrily, and then is appalled at himself. "W-welts."

     Bull's eyebrows rise a little. He _knows_. But he only says, "Welts it is. Got it. How do you feel about spanking?"

     "Like I'm not a naughty child!"

     "Clear enough, no hitting. Let's switch gears, then. What _do_ you like?"

     Dorian shakes his head and gets to his feet so that he can pace again. He can't take this anymore and has to vent his agitation somehow. "I can't understand how what I want even matters to you. You're an _alpha_." Alphas did what they pleased. That was their nature, whatever nonsense Dragons talked about duty and alphas serving omegas.

     "Think there's nothing that serves my nature in taking care of you? It's a bigger turn-on than you can imagine." He shrugs his great shoulders, eye tracking Dorian as he paces. "I mean, just think about it. You're _afraid_ , Dorian. You've been afraid for as long as I've known you. You're brave as hell to have done the things you've done despite your fear: leave Tevinter, come here alone, find a cause worthy of you and serve it with your life. But you're still afraid -- and I can help you with that. I _want_ to help you with that."

     Dorian stops, staring at him in mute disquiet. The Bull sighs and gets up, coming over. Dorian backs up a step in pure reflex, because there is always something slightly predatory about the way the Bull does things, but it's more overt in this moment. This step puts Dorian's back against the hearth-wall, however; nowhere left to go.

     The Bull doesn't touch Dorian, but he props a hand against the wall over Dorian's head. It seems quieter in the tavern with his big body blocking much of the sound. Warmer, too; even in man-shape, a Dragon radiates heat like a furnace. Dorian finds himself remembering what it felt like to have those hot hands on his hips, hot breath tickling his back. Maker.

     "No need to make decisions," the Bull suggests, in this sudden quiet space. Here in the warm shadows, his eye is red, the harsh angles of his face somehow feral. He lifts a hand and drags just the tips of his partially-extended claws down the front of Dorian's clothing. The soft catch-and-release sound of the claws on cloth makes Dorian shiver despite himself. "No need to give instructions. No fear. No shame. No need to try and please me, because trust me -- if you enjoy yourself, I will. Can't wait to show you what you've been missing."

     Then he leans close, putting his mouth to Dorian's ear. His breath is hot and faintly sulfurous. "I want to swallow you down, Dorian. I want to fill you up. Lick that pretty Vint skin 'til you beg to be fucked. Fuck you 'til you beg to come. Make you come so hard you'll think you're going to die."

     Then he backs off. Backs up, and resumes his usual seat half-sprawled against the tavern wall, picking up his mug again for another sip. Aside from the slight smile on his lips, there's absolutely no sign that he's just seduced Dorian to within an inch of his damned life. In fact -- the bastard -- he lifts his mug in a sardonic toast. "All I'm saying is," he finishes, "you ever want to explore that, my door's always open."

     And Dorian stands where the Bull has left him, his thoughts frozen and his whole body hypersensitive, achy. Is it the heat again? No. It's just want.

     But he has his pride. Pushing himself shakily away from the wall, Dorian says, with as much dignity as he can muster, "I suppose I might consider it."

     Bull's low chuckle as Dorian walks away is the proof of his lie.

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Now let's get started," the Bull says.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for a hint of, uh, tentacle sex. Technically _furry_ tentacle sex. I should just go to therapy like a normal person.

 

     Dorian manages one whole night before he gives in. He spends most of it sleepless, shifting restlessly in his bed, trying not to imagine what could be. He succeeds, but the morning finds him exhausted and frustrated and angry with himself, for many reasons.

     He avoids the Bull. Avoids everyone, and snaps at people who come looking for him. In the library, he reads the same genealogical survey three times before concluding that it's hopeless. When he sits down to rub his aching temples, he falls asleep like that.

     When he wakes, it's well after nightfall, and he knows he can't take another night of this. Damn his pride. He is omega. He may not be ready to flaunt it all over Skyhold, but he will not be ashamed of his needs, either.

     (Even if he is.)

     The Bull's room is in the dilapidated tower above the tavern. When Dorian tries the latch, it is unlocked -- of course, because no one's stupid enough to invade a Dragon's lair uninvited or with ill intent. He spies an unmade bed that is bigger than any bed Dorian's ever seen, and a dresser, and an old chest of the sort that looks like it contains treasure. There's no one in sight when Dorian pushes the door open, but he calls anyway, "Bull?" He hesitates, then steps inside. "Bull, are you -- "

     He sees the tail first, and stops short. It runs across the floor, so dark-colored that it nearly blends into the brown of the old wooden slats. The scales are matte, but glossy. Faintly banded with growth-marks, but this lends them an undersheen like tiger-eye. Dorian follows the line of the scales up to where the ridge of sharp points begins, growing in length as they march up the long, sinuous spine. A massive leg and elongated foot, ending in long, naturally crimson-tinted claws. Graceful wings that seem too small lie folded along his flanks, their digits ending in small claws as well. And finally, Dorian follows the line of the Dragon's body down to the wedge-shaped head. The horns are familiar, though bigger; so is the single eye, though now it is huge and slit-pupilled and blood red. Even in this shape, the Bull is muscular, and bigger than any Dragon drake Dorian has ever seen. Maker, Dorian's actually seen smaller High Dragons. The Bull fills the entire tower chamber.

     And he is _beautiful_. Pure coiled power in his stillness, but no more frightening than the massive axe-wielding weapon that is his man-form, too. It's startling to realize Dragons are beautiful, but then this is the first time Dorian has beheld a Dragon and not had to fight for his life. He stops and stares, entranced despite himself.

     Then abruptly the Bull is in his man shape. He is completely naked, lacking even his eyepatch, but any teasing Dorian might think to do about arrogant assumptions or wishful thinking dies on his lips. He stares, instead, taking in the ridiculously muscled shoulders and barrel-like midriff and pillar-thick legs and, oh yes, the magnificent penis that he remembers so well, already ripe and ready for Dorian. The Bull's skin is not as sleek as his scales, but overall he is just as lovely to Dorian's eye. Or maybe that's the lust talking; he can't be sure.

     The Bull's leaning casually against a dilapidated old bookcase. He pushes shut the door that Dorian left open, and smiles. "Right on time."

     Dorian shivers. Just the sight of the Bull has awakened the needy feeling again. It isn't the raw, desperate thing that he felt in heat, but it is _hungry_ \-- the hunger of a man long accustomed to deprivation, resigned to his misery, but suddenly offered a feast.

     But even as he feels this, the rising curls of desire are shortened, snapped back, by shame. He looks away, hating himself. The Bull obviously knew he would come tonight. Maker, to such an experienced alpha, Dorian is practically a _virgin_. And with his Ben-Hassrath training, he must think Dorian as predictable as the sunrise. All Dorian's efforts to be independent, to choose his own fate, are for naught. In the end, he's just another omega. Just another animal's whore, like his father always feared.

     The Bull's horns tilt a little. Then he reaches out, putting a hand under Dorian's chin and lifting it so that Dorian has no choice but to look him in the eye. Bull's eye narrows for a moment, no doubt seeing Dorian's every weakness and flaw; Dorian both aches for him and hates him in this moment. But he has made his choice; pointless to regret now.

     The Bull's grip on Dorian's chin shifts a little, so that he can run a thumb over Dorian's lips. "Figured you for an omega the first time I saw you, you know," he says. "Even without the scent. You walk into a room and every eye goes to you. That's exactly how it should be. Omegas are the heart of any pack or flight -- or Inquisition -- you join. The alpha drags everybody along from the front. Your role's to push from the back."

     Dorian doesn't want to talk about his role, or how his father was right. Sex. He's here for sex. They should talk about sex. "I was rather hoping for more 'pushing from the back' on _your_ part, actually, for tonight."

     The Bull laughs, rich and low, and steps closer. He's so warm. Dorian imagines that if Bull had his wings, he would be enfolded within them now. The thought is not as disturbing as it should be. "I want you to say a word for me: katoh."

It's strange barbarian nothing-language. Dorian shakes his head, bemused at a Dragon's strange idea of bedroom talk, and says it back. "Katoh."

     The Bull's eye glimmers red for a moment, and he licks his lips with a pointed, long tongue. It's the first sign Dorian's seen that Bull really wants this, really wants _him_ , and something in him grows hotter at the thought. The desire turns bright-edged with fear, though, as abruptly Bull lunges forward. His hand shifts from Dorian's chin to his throat, and Dorian is borne back to a blurring jolt against the wall. While he stands there gasping -- not hurt, just startled -- the Bull's hand shifts again, threading clawed fingers through Dorian's hair. Not pulling, but the occasional prick of sharp things on his scalp is both a warning and a promise.

     "Again," the Bull says, and it is _completely wrong_ that the sharp command of this arouses Dorian as much as it does.

     "K-katoh."

     "You're mine now," the Bull says. Dorian's heart clenches again, but it isn't fear this time. Maker, does he _like_ this? It isn't claiming for the bond; the Bull has promised not to do that. But it seems the declaration alone has power. "This room? Is my lair. No one walks into a Dragon's lair and tells a Dragon what to do. Out there you have to pretend to be just human; I get it, however much I might hate it. You have to hide. In here, though? You're an omega. You're _my_ omega. In here, what I say goes. Understand?"

     Dorian inhales, astonished. He isn't a fool; there is a double entendre in Bull's words that has nothing to do with sex. _The freedom to be what I am_. He cannot have it anywhere else, but here, in this small space with Bull, he can. It is a strange and heady thought, of whose meaning Dorian is yet uncertain. When the Bull leans in, Dorian can't look away from that one eye, which is deep red now with lust and more. Maker. What does it mean that he wants to fall to his knees at the Bull's feet, right now?

     Bull's hand abruptly tightens, gripping Dorian's hair and jerking his head back. "Say yes or no," he says, enunciating each syllable. "Let me know whether you understand."

     "Y-yes," Dorian blurts, his eyes watering.

     "Good." The Bull eases his grip, leaning in to brush Dorian's mouth with his own. Dorian tries to meet that kiss and cannot without pulling against the Bull's fingers. He knows, suddenly, that he should not do that. The Bull watches his internal struggle, eye missing nothing, and then smiles. " _Very_ good. Now you're getting it." He straightens a little and presses his face into Dorian's forehead and hair, inhaling the clean, unaltered omega scent of him. "All those human lovers and I bet not one has conquered you, hmm? Omegas need that, see. You're like wild dragons -- pure power, uncontrolled. You need to be mastered."

     While Dorian stares back at him in confusion and rising arousal, and confusion _at_ his rising arousal, the Bull leans close and speaks into his ear. "You say 'katoh,' anytime, and this ends. No hard feelings. No questions. Struggle and I'll just put you down. Beg and I'll love it. Tell me to stop? I'll go harder. But you can stop this, anytime, with that one word. Katoh."

     Dorian nods, feeling the power of the syllables this time, and -- Venhedis. It actually soothes away his fear. He _can_ stop this. That's everything. It seems to demand repetition. "Katoh." And then, because he hates the part of him that has instantly remoulded itself to _obey_ the Bull, he lifts his chin. "And what if I give _you_ cause to say it?"

     The Bull leans back to belly-laugh in his face, but it is good-natured. "Then you stop whatever you're doing, too. But somehow I don't think that's going to be a problem, tonight." His eye is mesmerizing. That's a Dragon thing, isn't it? Dorian has read so -- that wild dragons sometimes hunt by staring at their prey while inching closer, holding them enraptured, until time to strike. Whatever the reason, Dorian cannot look away as Bull reaches off to pick up something from a dresser nearby.

     "Now let's get started," the Bull says. Then he flips Dorian facedown over the chest.

     _Startled_ is a completely inadequate word for what Dorian feels as he lies there blinking. Bull's hands are rough as he yanks Dorian's trousers down; he doesn't tear them, but he rips the leather lacing like it's made of gossamer. Once those are down around Dorian's ankles, he simply yanks away his smallclothes -- made of silk, and bought back in the days when Dorian could afford such luxuries. A part of Dorian is too shocked to be afraid. Surely the Bull would not...? The rest of him, as he has always done since he was old enough to spell _sarcasm_ , complains at such ill-use. "Bloody Void! Those underthings cost more than your hammer."

     "Probably," Bull agrees, sounding amused. "I took the hammer off a dead Vint. Now, then -- "

     His knees nudge Dorian's thighs apart. There is a startling splatter of wetness over Dorian's buttocks; oil. A great thick weight rests upon his cleft for a moment, thrusting a little as if to let Dorian contemplate the full measure of his own madness. "Venhedis," Dorian blurts, trying to struggle upright. The Bull puts one hand on his back again, like on the night of his heat, and this time it feels like a load of firewood. "You can't possibly just -- "

     The Bull simply shoves into him. It is like that first night, no preparation, just _in_ and _in_ \-- but on that night Dorian had already worked himself into a fever around the dildo. This time Dorian is cold and his body protests. He yells, mostly out of affront and surprise, but there's definitely pain too, worse than anything he's felt since the long-ago day when he lost his nether virginity. And the Bull is merciless, not letting up until he is fully seated, not pausing so that Dorian can adjust, not listening to Dorian's gasping cries. Instinctively Dorian tries to pull away and Bull just hauls him back, holds him still, and starts fucking the life out of him.

     "Humans," the Bull says. He speaks in between puffs of effort, his voice laden with contempt. "They think you're one of them. Probably -- hnh, yeah, _give_ me that ass, stop running -- treat you like you're made of glass. They don't get what you are."

     **_They_** _aren't fucking savages_ , Dorian thinks, but cannot say because the Bull's cock keeps jolting the breath from his lungs. Usually he can drift in the haze of desire, think of other things while waiting for the initial discomfort of copulation to fade, but not now. Not with the Bull, big as his own sodding hammer, banging away at Dorian's arse. Dorian tries to relax, tries to push back so the muscles will ease their helpless clenching, but it's pointless -- and it doesn't matter, in the end. The Bull means to fuck him, so Dorian is getting fucked.

     "Too rough for you? Too inconsiderate for your fine altus sensibilities?" The Bull laughs softly. "I told you. In here, it's not about what you want. You're getting what you _need_."

     "N-not -- " His teeth clack together. He has to concentrate to avoid biting his own tongue. "Heat, f-for -- fuck's -- "

     "You think you only need a good fucking when you're in heat?" The Bull abruptly withdraws. Dorian sucks in unfettered breath for a precious few seconds, while he feels the Bull yank off his boots and pants. Then, unencumbered, the Bull kicks his legs further apart. Giving himself room to work. Then he's in Dorian again, relentless, before Dorian can muster the wit to protest. Then the room spins, and there is a grinding sound like wood on stone, which for a moment in his extremity Dorian fears might be the sound of his bones breaking. That is his extremity being melodramatic; it isn't _that_ rough. But then the Bull's fingers catch the thicker hair on Dorian's crown again, lifting his face up. Now he sees himself in a full-length mirror on that side of the room, arse up and hands splayed on the old wood and face flushed dark, expression flustered. Behind him, the Bull is enormous, a monster, a single red eye glowing in the candle-lit dark.

     "But does it really not feel good?" the Bull asks. His voice is soft, for the Bull, but Dorian cannot mistake the sudden intentness of it. "Or are you just offended that I didn't take you out for dinner first?"

     "Wh-what?" That's nonsensical.

     Abruptly Bull jerks Dorian's head back farther, and leans down to speak hotly into his ear. The sudden shift of angles is -- Dorian gasps again, and this time it isn't just for air. _Sweet Maker, that felt --_ And then the Bull pauses, rocking in place. This time it is undeniable, and Dorian shudders with what is suddenly, distinctly, pleasure. "Ah, we're both men, Dorian. You don't want foreplay any more than I do. You want to get off. Right? But everybody says that's selfish. That you're a bad lover if you care only about yourself. Nice, _polite_ fucking." He nuzzles Dorian's ear, growling softly; the rumble it shakes Dorian's whole body. "Fuck politeness. Fuck whatever other people think about who and how you fuck. This is _mounting_ ; this is where I give you everything you need. Just let go and enjoy it."

     Then he sits up, dropping Dorian's head, and takes firm hold of Dorian's hips before resuming his relentless pace.

     And Maker of all, it feels so damned good.

     Dorian shuts his eyes and pushes up to brace himself on his forearms. Easier to breathe, though he lets his head droop rather than try and hold it up against the sheer force of the Bull's thrusts. There's no pain anymore, or perhaps the Bull has simply fucked him to numbness. But no -- it's _good_ , sweet pulsing sensations limning his nerves and melting his will. Better when he lets himself stop thinking and just feel. Magnificent to be used like this -- the horror of it! And yet.

     "That's it," the Bull says. With his eyes closed, Dorian hears nothing but the Bull's voice and the sound of wet flesh coming together. "Yeah. Oh, _fuck_ , you're so good. Opened right up for me, same as the other night. You can take me. Take a whole flight of Dragons if you have to -- not that I'd let them. You're _mine_." And there is such ferocious possessiveness in that word this time. Dorian forces his eyes open, and in the mirror he sees the Bull's face hovering beside his. Eye glowing. Fangs distended between drawn-back lips, mouth open and panting. The join of Dorian's neck and shoulder is right there. One bite and he can make Dorian his in truth, forever.

     The Bull's eye meets Dorian's, and he grins. He knows Dorian's fear, and loves it. "Scared, little omega? Want to give me your katoh?"

     Dorian shuts his eyes. Tears of overwhelmed reaction slide down his cheeks, but he cannot bring himself to feel shame. "N-no."

     "Sure? I'm just getting started. Gonna ride your pretty ass all _night_."

     And fasta vass, Dorian cannot help himself.

     _"Please,"_ he begs, and the Iron Bull sits back to laugh to the rafters.

     A thousand things happen after that, or so it seems. The Bull comes, growling and still praising Dorian's arse, and then he throws Dorian onto his back and suckles him -- Dorian's cock bracketed by those long, sharp fangs -- until Dorian spills and weeps and wonders if he has died. By then the Bull has hauled off the rest of Dorian's clothes, though he uses the shirt to tie Dorian's wrists behind his back. So Dorian moans into the Bull's vast bed as he is taken again, this time left without even the ability to push himself up, not that the Bull's weight allows such a thing. When he squirms against the bed, trying to work his cock against the sheets, the Bull changes their positions. He sits up with Dorian in his lap, and he makes Dorian ride Bull's cock while he -- with fingers tipped with long, curving claws -- massages Dorian's. "Don't come 'til I tell you," he commands, and sweet Maker Dorian tries to obey, he does. He fails because it's _so good_ and some things are inevitable, but the pleasure of it is so powerful that his vision goes white and his body bows back and the Bull runs the tips of his claws up Dorian's throat and breathes, "Yeah. Oh yeah, look at that, can't get enough of you." Then while Dorian lies shuddering in the aftermath of this, the Bull ties a black cloth 'round his eyes. While Dorian lies there on his back, arms trussed and body arched and eyes blinded and legs gone numb from their last bout, the Bull drags those claws down his torso. (There's blood. Dorian can't see it, but he knows it, and he loves it.) To soothe the pain, the Bull laps at Dorian's nipples with a tongue that Dorian is sure has become forked. He caresses Dorian's skin with... something. All Beasts have three forms, after all: the man, the animal, and the halfway between. Are those wings that Dorian hears, folding about him and making the world close and narrow? Is that a tail? Is -- oh -- oh Maker -- is it going --

     "Katoh?" the Bull asks, in a voice gone deep and reverberating and inhuman.

     And Dorian, shaking, writhing, mind gone, voice a hoarse wreck, shouts his submission as a defiance of the entire unjust world. _"No!"_

#

     After, there is tenderness. The Bull lays Dorian down in the great bed of his lair, covers him up, keeps him warm, strokes away his shivers. When Dorian falls into a dreamless sleep, he leaves for a time. Dorian wakes to find that the Bull has brought a big wooden tub up into the tower room, and the water is hot. (There's a faint smell of sulfur in the air. Dorian does not think about this.) He lets the Bull pick him up and they sit in the tub together. The Bull drags a wet, herb-scented cloth over Dorian's limbs and kisses his temples and murmurs marvelous things like, "We call omegas atashi. The glorious ones. That's what you are. So fucking sweet."

     Through it all Dorian is limp, not because he is so exhausted or well-fucked (though he _is_ , oh how he _is_ , that). It's simply that the choice to move, and even the choice to _make choices_ , means the resumption of the old way. It means becoming his own man again, having to worry about the wants and needs and threats of others again. He does not want to be his own man, and here in Bull's tower, he does not have to be. He is Bull's. He is safe. He is omega.

     Bull lets him have this. When they are clean, he bundles Dorian into a Dragon-sized towel and rubs him down, applying healing potions to his bruises and scratches. (Dorian wants to keep the scratches, but that would require voicing wants, so he loses them. This time.) The Bull even pulls his legs apart and nuzzles his nethers, perhaps to reassure himself of no damage. Dorian is raw there, but a dab of potion takes care of the problem. And does the Bull's finger linger a moment, contemplatively? Dorian shivers, hoping. But then the Bull sighs and lets Dorian be, much to Dorian's disappointment.

     (It is... it is almost... perhaps he understands the chains, a little. The _sewing_. It would hurt at first, but once it healed, would it not be...? He has not wanted to speak since Bull finished with him. Does not want to move, except in ways that please the Bull. Would not chains just...?)

     He pushes this thought away, but doing so is a _choice_. And so, finally, Dorian sighs and lays claim to himself again.

     "N-" Talking is hard, somehow. His throat is still raw. The Bull grunts and helps Dorian sit up, then feeds him a swallow of potion. When Dorian tries again, it's easier. "Not quite what I was expecting."

     "That was the general idea," the Bull says. He lies down next to Dorian, hands behind his head, ankles folded, comfortable. They are still in the Bull's quarters, but Dorian's choice to speak seems to have banished the special rules of the space, at least for the time being. Then the Bull grins. "Three times! Also, I'll have Krem buy you some more silky underthings. The Inquisitor's paying us enough."

     Dorian chuckles. The sound is foreign to his ears. He feels completely alien to himself, and different in ways he cannot define. "I"ll buy _my own_ silky underthings, thank you, and have them bill you."

     And then there is nothing else to say. Dorian cannot articulate what he is feeling. The Bull seems to respect his silence; he yawns but then lies there companionably, not forcing Dorian to talk. It begins to grate that Dorian is here but that he must _choose_ to stay here, that he must make choices at all, that he must soon go back out into the world where he must watch his back and cannot trust another alpha the way he does the Bull. He wonders if he will ever again be able to tolerate a human lover. He wonders if --

     Too much uncertainty. He needs real sleep. He needs time and space to ponder what Bull has made, _re_ -made, of him. (What he has always been, without understanding.) So he gets up and pulls on what's left of his clothing. It's not too damaged -- laces torn, buttons popped. No one will notice unless they look closely, and he can get the laundry servants to repair the damage. The underthings are the only real casualty, and Dorian leaves them on the floor where the Bull tossed them. Bull can have them as a token.

     He puts his amulet back on, too, and hates that it is necessary.

     When his clothes are on, he turns to leave. "Hey," Bull says, and for an instant Dorian is thrown back three nights. How cruelly he suffered, then. How kind the Bull has been, he sees now. This thought fills Dorian's throat and threatens to spill from his eyes as tears, so he keeps his back to the Bull and does not turn back, only uttering a hum of acknowledgement.

     He hears the Bull sit up on one elbow. "Remember," the Bull says. Just that. What does it mean? But Dorian knows. He swallows hard against the lump in his throat so that he can speak.

     "If you choose to leave your door open like a savage," he says, not even trying to sound nonchalant, "I may or may not come."

     It's a lie. He'll come back. As often as his body can bear, he suspects. But since for now they are pretending to follow the old rules of pride and propriety, that's the excuse he needs. So then Dorian heads for the door. But when he puts his hand on the door latch, the Bull says, in a voice that is all a-rumble with amusement and warmth and a tenderness that Dorian would never have believed of him before three nights ago: "Speak for yourself."

     It's an awful joke. Dorian can practically hear the Bull's eyebrows waggling. The urge to cry recedes and Dorian cannot help laughing. He glances back, and finally realizes he has avoided doing so. It's easier, now. The Bull is grinning, but his one-eyed gaze is soft. Of course he knew what Dorian needed to face the world again. He knows everything Dorian needs.

     So Dorian leaves the Dragon's lair like that, laughing, as armed to face the world again as he can be.

     But he will go back to Bull's tower.

     Soon.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Whew! Finally done. Eleven-goddamn-thousand words for a PWP. My fucking muse, I swear...


End file.
